Finite Incantatem
by vesperlynd17
Summary: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and the disintegration of a marriage.
1. Dawn - Part I

**So this story will be told within twenty-fours over the course of three years, if that makes sense. It will basically be what the summary says it is, but I hope I get the emotions and characterizations right, and through the prose, explain the kinks I make. Enjoy and review if you feel like it!**

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**Finite Incantatem**

oOo

**Chapter 1: Dawn – Part I**

_**7:30 AM – Avignon, Provence**_

A soft mattress under her back. The powdery floral scent of the pillows. A soft breeze whistling in from the right, coaxing her hair to dance along with it and tickle her cheek, which in turn coaxed her into consciousness.

She opened her eyes, and there were white sheets so voluminous that they practically swallowed her. Above her was the high ceiling and its gold-gilded coving, which properly matched the cream paint on the walls. Cream gleamed pale yellow from the gentle rays of the sunrise. Flat on her back on the bed, she could spy the verdant hills beyond the vineyard, beyond the trees framing the lawn, beyond the ivy-covered wrought-iron railing of the balcony, beyond one of the two tall French doors that gave the room its warm, vintage feel.

Lightweight white curtains fluttered over the doors soundlessly. She tracked them from their suspension on the wall and, pushing herself up against the pillows, to the plush old chaise they caressed. The old thing must have been centuries old, as was mostly everything else in the house. For this reason, she had a certain reverence for this chateau and all the other historical quasi-landmarks she'd been living in for the past three years, this fairy-tale life which sprung from the most bizarre circumstances and from a most unlikely source.

For how else could she describe waking up every morning to an insane feeling of contentedness, so potent that it made her giddy and start the day with a smile on her face? She'd known this kind of joy before, the type that blossoms from the love of kind, caring parents and the doting of other adults who were more than impressed by a precocious child. That was definitely torn from her in her adolescence – suddenly, she had to prove her worth, and to sacrifice, and to _fight_. She did it for nearly a decade, shorter than her previous life but so straining that she'd forgotten what the first half of her life had been.

Compared to that, it felt like a crime…unnatural to be so unapologetically happy every day for the rest of her life. But when she thought about it, maybe all she had gone through had been enough to reward her with this. Her childhood had given her an overflowing supply of love enough to last her through a war and to keep her aware of the difference between right and wrong. Her adolescence had taken that love and turned it into such a passionate belief of goodness that she'd risked her life for it. That correct decision had birthed a better life, a safer world for herself and everyone she cared about, and, most importantly, an even stronger faith in love's saving grace that when she met its male incarnation, she neither doubted nor hesitated, despite his unlikeliness.

It was like the first twenty-odd years of her life had been preparing her for this separate existence, had led her to this moment of pure bliss, watching her husband and infant daughter on the old chaise, basking in each other's company and in the unoppressive warmth of the early morning sun.

Draco, as always, looked completely besotted with the baby. He was bouncing her on his lap, but Hermione did not worry because she knew he had a firm grip on their daughter, and that no harm would ever come to her as long as he was with her father. The baby was giggling, and though she wasn't facing her mother, Hermione knew Pippa's brown eyes and pink lips mirrored the mirth Hermione could see on Draco's face. Both blonde heads shone in the sunlight, and the baby's golden curls bounced as her father lifted her high one last time and brought her down to kiss her on the cheek. As he did so, his grey eyes swept past the bed, and he was greeted by his wife's smile.

He turned Pippa around to face the bed and held her against his chest. "Look, baby girl," he whispered into her ear, but loud enough that Hermione could hear. "There's Mummy."

Hermione pushed the blankets off herself and pranced from the bed, eager to hold her child. She held Draco's gaze as he released Pippa into her mother's arms. "Good morning, Mummy," he greeted her.

She returned his greeting with a kiss, and he immediately leaned into the chaise to make room for her. They quickly moulded to each other as she sat between his legs, and he proceeded to drop kisses on her shoulder while she cradled Pippa.

"Good morning, my darling love," she told the baby. "Do you know it's your birthday today?"

"I think she does. She was already awake when I fetched her from the crib," Draco chuckled, "which she's getting too big for, by the way."

"Good thing it's your birthday, isn't it?" Hermione cooed. "Grammy Cissy will probably have a new crib for you."

The baby had long been distracted by Hermione's curly hair, getting her hands tangled in it. Narcissa had been delighted by Philippa's long, pale fingers and the prospect of teaching her first grandchild to play the piano. Draco's parents never stood a chance against their son's baby daughter – Narcissa had gushed about how identical Pippa had been to Draco at birth with her thick tufts of pale hair, and Lucius worshipped the girl for looking so much like his beloved wife with her golden tresses and defined bone structure, although Draco predicted that his daughter would grow up to be Hermione's blonde twin. Hermione argued, though, that Pippa would end up nearly as tall as her father and even tower over her.

"Look how much she's grown, Draco."

Draco paused his adoration of his wife's neck. "Imagine, Pip," he said, and the baby looked up at the mention of her name, "You were tinier than _Hogwarts: A History_ a year ago!"

Hermione laughed out loud at her husband's reference. Philippa was born premature, and both her parents had been scared to hold her at first because she had been so small and truly fragile. She hugged her daughter closer as, through the open doors, they watched the workers head into the vineyard to prepare for the coming harvest.

"I think I'll break out the '82 Bordeaux."

Hermione turned halfway to face her husband, raising a brow. "At a children's party, Draco?"

"No, silly, tonight at the adults' dinner once Miss Pippa and _her _guests have been tucked into bed," Draco drawled. "And why shouldn't I? Today we're celebrating my baby girl's first birthday, and her beautiful mother who bravely brought her into the world." He ended his speech with a kiss on Hermione's temple.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Malfoy. But I seriously don't think I can go through that again."

"That's perfectly fine," Draco reassured. "That is _perfectly_ fine. I have you, I have Pip, and we're jolly and healthy and all that."

Hermione leaned back against Draco's chest. "Really?" she quietly breathed, although she knew Draco's words were nothing but sincere. Childbirth had taken a hard toll on Hermione, and for the couple of days that she'd been unconscious, Draco was left on his own to fret about whether his newborn daughter would survive. Two instalments of relief had washed over him, first when Hermione woke up, then when Aurora Philippa Narcissa Cerise Granger Malfoy made it through the critical first week.

In reply, Draco tightened his embrace around Hermione. She melted into him all the more and he laid his cheek on top of her head. She closed her eyes as his warmth soothed her, as her daughter's weight in her arms tethered her to the world, as Draco's cool breath on her hair reminded her of his constant, faithful presence.

Draco's hand reached up from around Hermione's waist to stroke Pippa's curls. He gave Hermione another kiss on the cheek before nudging her forward so he could stand.

"Well, come on, Pip," he said, lifting Pippa, who gladly went with her father. "D'you feel like grapes for breakfast? Let's get out of Mummy's hair so she can set up your party, eh?" He winked at Hermione and made for the door, heading to Pippa's nursery. "Maybe while we're gone, she'll sneak in your birthday pony!" he whispered conspiratorially, eliciting giggles from the baby.

"She is not getting a pony!" Hermione called out with a grin. "And don't feed her grapes before she's had her milk!"

She rose from the chaise, shaking her head. With her wand, she made the bed before the house elves could rush in to do it. The poor things would already be beside themselves cooking appetizers for the kids, appetizers for the adults, the children's lunch, the adults' dinner, tidying up the winery, and preparing rooms for the guests, all of which Hermione had scheduled to the minute. She herself had to supervise the transformation of the front parlour into a giant playhouse, choose a place setting for the formal dining room, make sure the guests took their Portkeys into France on time, and greet them when they actually arrive.

Before heading in for a shower, she chose a flowing dress and matching shoes and jewellery appropriate for a day of organizing parties and playing her part as Philippa's mother, Lucius and Narcissa's daughter-in-law, and Draco Malfoy's wife.


	2. Dawn - Part II

**Just to clear it up, this chapter takes place almost two years after the previous one. This story won't be told in chronological order. Thank you so much for the favorites and follows!**

**Disclaimer: Felix Felicis is J.K. Rowling's and J.K. Rowling's alone, just as the excerpt from _Pride and Prejudice _is Jane Austen's.**

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_"Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied."_

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

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**Finite Incantatem**

oOo

**Chapter 2: Dawn – Part II**

_**Wiltshire, England**_

It was bright. It was too bright. He would have to give the elves a talking to about drawing his curtains before he'd risen.

He knew it was Saturday morning, at least. He closed his eyes to block the light. He could sleep in if he wanted to, and he wanted to because his head was an anvil, the ever-present musky fragrance of the manor doing little to comfort him. He burrowed further into the blankets, wondering if, in his current state, he'd be able to perform a warming charm without accidentally setting anything – himself – on fire.

Pippa was with his parents in France – he didn't have to get out of bed to wake her up, get her dressed, or entertain her. Not that he minded; he just felt like total crap today. Thank Merlin he'd finished everything he needed to do yesterday at work so the firm wouldn't need him to come in today. Hopefully, Hermione would have a free weekend, too. He really hoped so. He'd barely seen his wife lately, with him finalizing a new investment at the firm and her rushing to have all pending cases reviewed by the Wizengamot before its recess. For the past month, they'd both been home on weekends, but had no time for leisure because Draco was always drowning in paperwork in his study, and Hermione constantly brought her departmental underlings with her. The Malfoys had practically fully surrendered one of the manor's parlours to Hermione's staff for their weekend marathons, although it was a room in a wing far from the one the family occupied.

_It's just a phase_, both of them took turns murmuring comfortingly to each other when they finally climbed into bed. _This project will be sealed soon and I won't be so busy_, or _it's the Wizengamot's peak season, but I'll have more free time when they adjourn for the winter…in a week or so. _It went on for four more weeks, and would, quite frankly, extend for longer, but they didn't need to disconcert the other with that. Draco and Hermione were sure that neither of them really believed anymore that it would pass soon, but it needed to be said for the other's sake, if not for their own.

Honestly, they were both getting used to this routine: the coming and going of Hermione's staff; Owls tapping on windows every hour to deliver a new stack of folders to Draco; Draco working over dinner in his study while Hermione had supper in the parlour with her staff and Pippa dined with her grandparents; falling into bed, so exhausted that they rarely even had the energy to speak, to wish the other a good night, let alone to hold each other. The only practice they sustained from before this season of stress was Pippa's bedtime.

At nine, Draco tidied his desk, washed his hands of ink, and sent the last Owl off with the last batch of signed files to the office in London. His employees knew that Mr. Malfoy was otherwise preoccupied past that hour. Hermione said goodbye to her staff as they took turns in the Floo, thanked them for their time and hard work, then apologized to the elves for having to leave them to clean up the mess. Draco then climbed the stairs from his first-floor study to the third-floor bedrooms, and Hermione trekked across the manor from what Draco had dubbed her "war room" to the family wing.

Tired smiles and no words would be exchanged as they met outside the nursery. When they entered, Narcissa would usually be drying the child off from her bath. Hermione and Draco took over from there, thanking Narcissa. A bedtime story from Draco would come once Pippa was in her pyjamas, followed by Hermione rocking her one-year-old to sleep while humming a lullaby. Hermione passed the baby to her father, who kissed her before laying her down in her crib, and securing her blanket around her. Pippa's parents would watch her for a while. They'd hesitantly leave the nursery, pass through the door that connected it to their room, and performed their evening ablutions together, quietly, unobtrusively. They no longer asked how the other's day had been – it would always be the same, long story with terms the other didn't understand and people the other didn't know, and neither Draco nor Hermione wanted to waste the little time they had with one another talking about the things that had kept them from each other all day. This silence was no better, but it was preferable. None of them spoke even as they climbed into their respective sides of their wide marital bed, as they pulled the shared blankets up to their chins, not even as their breathing began to synchronize – aside from those tremulous, whispered assurances, but those only came on nights after particularly hard days.

Draco's parents pitied their granddaughter for getting caught in the middle of this monotony, prompting a week-long respite in Pippa's beloved chateau in Provence. They wouldn't be back till Saturday evening or Sunday morning, which gave Draco and Hermione the whole day for themselves, for each other.

Excited by this, Draco rolled on his side to pull Hermione closer to him, kiss her, greet her a good morning, and ask her what she'd like to do for the day. He opened his sleepy (bloodshot) grey eyes when he realized he was grasping at air.

He quickly pushed himself up against the antique headboard, and the full force of a legitimate hangover made him regret it immediately. When the room stopped spinning, he saw his wife looking out the open windows. She was already dressed for the day – a blouse under a wool cardigan, and jeans. Her hair was neat and tied back, but was his vision just blurry or did she look grey and haggard, the type only a sleepless night would leave in its wake?

His voice came out ragged and strained. "'Mione."

Draco was fixated as Hermione turned her head to look at him, slowly.

She did nothing but stare at him for a moment – not glaring, but just looking. Then, fluidly, she directed her eyes to the table by his side, forcing his to follow, and jerked her head to indicate a vial and a glass of water. She turned back to the window just as quickly.

The cloudy, yellow-brown substance in the vial was recognizably hangover potion. Merlin, it must be old. He and Hermione had not a recreational potions session for a long time. He swallowed the potion and water gratefully, grasping them as well as he could with his momentarily clumsy hand and heavy arm.

He fell back onto the pillows to wait for the potion to take effect. It was only then that he noticed that his wife had graduated to a full-on glare.

"You're unbelievable."

Hermione's arms were crossed under her chest, her stance belligerent and her mouth set into a firm, furious line. Draco's mind went on overdrive, desperate to find a way to avoid a spat and salvage their day.

"Hermione –"

"Did you have fun last night, huh, Malfoy? Was it fun to relive being a bachelor? _Did you smoke_? Because, I swear, the balcony was littered with cigarette butts."

"No. You know I wouldn't," he replied evenly. "That must have been Blaise or Theo."

"You shouldn't have let them! For Merlin's sake, we have a child who lives here! Thank _God_ your parents took Pippa with them! Heaven forbid she see her father in the sorry state _I_ found him in last night!"

He was instantly incensed by her words. He sat up on the bed, his back straight, posture proud, jaw clenched. She had never known him to be an irresponsible father, he'd never given her any reason to, and it wasn't like last night would _fucking_ decrease how much he loved Philippa – as if _anything _ ever would. "You think I would have had the guys over if _my daughter_ had been here? Obviously, Granger!"

"Oh, so this was all for my benefit, then?" she roared. Her sleep-deprived eyes dilated, coming to life. "So I could come home to –" her hands flew out wildly in front of her, "to a _trashed_ house and a husband drunk off his arse? Sorry, if I set my expectations too high! There I was, in my office, hoping I could finish everything I had to do so I could free up my weekend for my husband. Maybe he and I could have a quiet night after a long day at work! But dash it all, because I came home and had to clean up after my husband and his friends! God, Draco!"

She clenched her teeth. When she spoke again, her tone was steadier, but shaky from the effort. "You're a _father_ and a _husband_. You aren't a bachelor, Draco, so stop behaving like one."

"I bloody might as well _be _one!" Draco yelled.

He realized what he'd said in less than a second, but it was already out there, and he just didn't give a damn right now. She started the fight, and she asked for it. Draco Malfoy was not going to let himself be scolded by that proud, self-righteous Gryffindor like a wayward teenager.

"What else would you expect when my wife's gone _all _day, _every _day and most nights, and barely interacts with me when she's home, except to pick a fight?"

Hermione felt like she'd been slapped in the face. Was he really turning this all around on her now? She couldn't believe his nerve, after she'd taken care of him when he was sprawled-on-the-floor pissed and emptying the contents of his stomach every five minutes.

"You told me you were alright with me working! You told me it was okay if I decided to take Kingsley's offer!"

"_When _you decided!" he spat back, getting onto his feet. "'S'not like I had a choice! You fucking decided without even asking me!"

"I _told _you, Draco! I _told _you about it!" she insisted exasperatedly without really seeing the point of it. Why was he only doing this now?

"Yes, you did. You deemed _your husband_ worthy of at least being _informed_, but you didn't _ask_ me what I thought, what I felt about it," he said through his teeth. Hell, saying it out loud exposed a fresh wound that had never really healed.

Her mouth fell open before she indignantly yelled, _"_I am not an incompetent, kept woman! I don't have to ask your bloody permission for anything! You're my _husband_, not my fucking guardian."

Was this his pureblood upbringing, the one that only had space for housewives and mothers and society matrons and none for career women, coming out to bite her in the arse? She had never thought that _he_ thought of her that way, never believed that the man she married could be capable of shooting her down like that. He _told _her he was okay with it, that he'd support her through anything. He told her that he was proud of what she was doing, that there was nothing wrong with it because she was simply being the woman he loved. Now he was making her feel like she never should have gone after what she wanted, never should have tried to do more with her life. He was fucking confusing. He was confusing her all the more with that look on his face.

Hermione hadn't noticed, but Draco's eye had twitched minutely as she uttered that last sentence. He felt his position _in her life _as her husband was being belittled, like their marriage – it was supposed to be a partnership – was not worthy of her respect enough for him to have a say in any of her major decisions. He regretted doing this now, when he could have told her what he thought more than a year ago while they had still been in France, before the massive fallout of moving back to England.

But she would have hated him, had he said no, or even if he'd tried to persuade her. He knew her – loved her because holding her back would have been akin to killing her. Didn't she know that letting her get her way had been his sacrifice?

What confused Hermione was that Draco had looked ready to strangle her only moments ago, all clenched teeth and defensive stance and closed fists, with his eyes fierily ablaze and stormy grey at the same time. Suddenly, as she finished talking, his posture had slackened, his lips hung apart, his fist opened and he looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands, and his eyes narrowed ever so fleetingly, almost like he flinched.

"That's just it, Hermione," he finally said, quietly. "You _do. _You do need to ask. _Both_ of us need to ask before we do anything because we're _married_ and we have a child. We're a family, and neither you nor I especially can keep making decisions like we'll be the only ones affected."

"Would you rather I'd said no to Kingsley and stayed in France and been your _perfect_ Mrs. Malfoy?" she said bitterly. Hermione stubbornly refused to be mollified by her husband, not when he'd practically insulted her entire essence, like he didn't know who she was. She couldn't – _would not_ go back to society teas and choosing china and rearranging and redecorating and planning parties and being a fucking domestic goddess, not after she'd regained her ambition, her drive, what she'd been working for all her life, and especially not after she'd experienced a fulfilment from running the Ministry that she'd never gotten from her carefree, aimless life in France. That Hermione, that perfect Mrs. Malfoy…she didn't know who that woman had been now, or how she'd even come to be. She couldn't associate her present self and what she'd accomplished thus far with the woman she'd been last year. She was setting an example, trying to be a good model of a headstrong, achieving woman for her daughter.

The frustration and confusion threatened to send tears spilling down her cheeks, so she turned away from Draco. She wanted to tell him to go away when she felt him come closer and stand behind her. She would be ashamed to cry in front of him when she was trying to prove how strong a woman she was.

"Hermione…" he breathed, and she felt it on her hair, on the back of her head. Draco thought he should consider his next words carefully, since this spat over a night of drinking he had with his friends had morphed into a full-blown fight about their marriage because he had hastily spoken, only to get back at her for giving him a hard time.

Instead, he let the words flow right out of him, meaning for them to be as sincere as possible.

"Hermione…you'll always be perfect to me. I love you, I love everything about you, and I love what you're doing. I love that you're your own person, and I would hate myself if you ever told me that I was stopping you from being who you are. I love – I love being married to Deputy Minister Hermione Granger, because she's fierce and smart and beautiful and perfect, and she makes me so fucking proud every day. I would never…want to stand in your way because I believe in you, and that's why I didn't last year, because I was confident that you wouldn't have pursued your career unless you were sure you'd be able to balance it to your family."

She turned around, tear tracks already staining her cheeks and painted fresh by free-flowing drops.

"Are you saying I've been a disappointing mother to Pippa?" she whispered.

Draco raised his brows – he hadn't meant to imply that at all. "No. It isn't in your nature to disappoint – you're actually the best at it. I couldn't ask for a better mother for my daughter."

Hermione shrugged, crossing her arms protectively in front of her. For the past year and six months, she had tried only to do good by her daughter. She wasn't one to break a promise.

"Then what more do you want from me, Draco?"

Draco didn't know what else he could say. Here was _his wife_, and she was perfect and brilliant because she was a fantastic mother, a good daughter to both her parents and his, a loyal friend, a dedicated scholar, a celebrated war hero, the best Deputy Minister the Wizarding World had seen in years and the foremost candidate to be the next Minister of Magic, but she always seemed to forget exactly _that_ – that she was his wife, as well.

He frowned, shaking his head, "Nothing." He tentatively reached out, and stroke her arm as a peace offering when she didn't jerk back. "I'm sorry for last night." And, kissing her on the forehead, "Good morning, my love."

Hermione didn't respond to Draco's gesture and kept her brows furrowed, lips pressed together. She stayed standing by the window as he went off to the bathroom. After a few moments of watching the snow fall on the manor grounds, she went down to the kitchens for a strong cup of tea.

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For what seemed to be the hundredth time, Hermione lay her book down in frustration and rearranged herself. She wondered if it was time to desert this window seat, with its gorgeous view of Wiltshire's snow-covered hills, for her mother-in-law's plush armchair. She fluffed – punched – the cushions, leaned back on them, crossed and uncrossed her legs until she decided right-over-left and adjusted the blanket over lower body, then tossed the thick material, choosing to draw her knees up to her chin instead. She flipped the book open once more and searched for where she'd left off.

Except for the hour-long nap she'd taken to recover from her stint last night as the nanny of three miscreant Slytherin boys named Draco, Blaise and Theo, she'd been reading for the better part of the day. She had retreated to the ladies' parlour after her screaming match with Draco. God knows where he was – probably in his study. Maybe he'd even barred the door. Merlin, what a waste of a Saturday.

How dare he imply that her mothering Pippa was lacking? Her daughter was on her mind all the time, she'd filled as much space as she could on her desk for Pippa's pictures, spared no one from hearing how magnificent the child was. Philippa was her first concern every morning, and she always came home in time to kiss her good night. She habitually Flooed to the manor in between council meetings and Wizengamot sessions so she could check on her daughter. She'd actually ached for her child in the first six months after she'd returned to the Ministry. She knew what Pippa ate at every meal, had an entire catalogue of Pippa's closet in her head, could decipher Pippa's personal dialect of baby talk. Whenever Pippa had one of her daddy phases, Hermione recognized the symptoms and allowed it despite the slight rejection she felt.

Who was he to act like he was the better parent? He wasn't the most present father in the world, either. At least they were equal in that respect. He didn't take breaks from work to see their daughter. He went straight to his study after Flooing home from London, and rarely ever emerged except for Pippa's bedtime. He gave in to her too easily, too often, that Hermione felt like he was intentionally going against the agreement they'd made not to spoil Pippa to spite her. If she were to be honest, she blamed Draco's cossetting for Pippa's preference of him. Sometimes she questioned what sort of role model Draco would be to Pippa, with his pride and extravagance and Quidditch and roughhousing with his friends. She most certainly would never pull a stunt like he did last night!

Last night was totally out of character for her usually composed, refined, self-aware husband, who was usually so unruffled that he seemed to have taken lessons from Fitzwilliam Darcy. She had pitied him when he groaned with sick as his head lay on her lap. Never, in their five years together, had she ever seen such behaviour from him, or observed him in such a state. She had only meant to give him a short reprimand. He didn't have to lash out on her about her job and hurt her feelings in the process.

What was the matter with him? They had a week to have the house all to themselves, and he chose to waste the start of the weekend on a boys' night. Couldn't he have had a civilized dinner with his friends instead? If he really wanted to act like a teenager, couldn't he have done it outside of their home to spare her the trouble?

Why did he even invite Blaise and Theo over on _their_ night? Didn't he want to spend time with her? Sure, they didn't really set anything in stone, but she would have appreciated it if her husband had tried to allot some time for her. She had definitely made the effort for him.

With that thought, she turned the page a tad too roughly. Her eyes widened when she realized what she'd almost done to the first edition copy of _Pride & Prejudice_ that Narcissa treasured.

It was pathetic. There was no way else to describe living in the same house and never seeing each other except for a few hours at night and having to strain themselves in order to find time for the other. They couldn't even blame the huge expanse of Malfoy Manor for that.

She never heard from him during the day despite the fact that they both worked in London. He didn't even send her flowers anymore. They were both too busy to have lunch together, and no longer met in Diagon Alley at the end of the day for dinner. He'd taken the day off from the firm on his birthday, asked her to stay home with him. He didn't even try to persuade her when she'd said _no, a lot of people are counting on me to show up today. _He never invited her, never approached her, never coaxed her with kisses and affection like he used to.

She yearned for it. She was the dragon lady who ran the Ministry from the inside while Minister Shacklebolt took care of the rest of the Wizarding World, but she could not thrive on respect and adulation alone. She'd grown too accustomed to Draco's quiet, sincere proclamations and reverent touches that she closed herself off when she stopped receiving them because she knew not what else to do with herself without them.

"You'll always be perfect to me," he'd said, not for the first time in their relationship. "I would never want to stand in your way because I believe in you," he'd sworn. "Fierce, smart, beautiful, and perfect," he'd called her.

Her face scrunched up as a delayed appreciation for what she'd taken as an insincere attempt to pacify her sunk in. He had actually told her she was more than a good mother. He'd swallowed his pride and any other argument he might have made to appease her. He was trying, and she had just denied to see it.

Because she, herself, was ashamed of how neglectful she had been of him.

Refusing to be reduced to tears for the second time in one day, Hermione forced herself to return to the novel.

"_How despicably have I acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable distrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation!"_

Guilt stabbed her as she read the heroine's own anguished expression of it, for she had driven Draco away. They both had contributed to the unhappy state their marriage was now in, but she'd be damned if she didn't try to rectify it. Despite his accusation that she held their marriage in no regard, their relationship – their family – _he_ was what composed the bulk of her essence that her ambitions could never take over. Fulfilling her goals was required of her by her very being, and Draco was right every time he said she wouldn't be Hermione Granger without it.

But neither could she be Hermione Granger without Draco Malfoy.

Taking care not to upset the old book as she left it, Hermione dashed out of the parlour and ran the length of the family wing and down the stairs to Draco's study. The door was not barred as she thought it would be, and it was with strained breath that she pushed the heavy oak open.

Her husband – her dear, _dear_ husband – was not behind his desk, but nestled in his favourite armchair. He wasn't surrounded by files and folders and portfolios and spreadsheets, for once. A hardbound tome she didn't recognize was cradled in his hands, and the image of Draco with the rather thick, ornately covered volume seemed to her so natural, along with the gilded walls and the high painted ceiling and the great framed portraits, the majestic snowy landscape outside the tall windows, the heavy velvet curtains that framed them, the intricately carved mahogany desk, the lushly upholstered couches that were both inviting and intimidating, and even the curved, graceful golden doorknob that her hand had frozen on. Everything in Draco's study was intricately, beautifully crafted, that he just simply belonged there, and she felt all the more regretful for ignoring it.

She made for the loveseat beside him, and he watched wordlessly as she approached. As soon as she sat down and his grey eyes locked on to her sheepish brown ones, she no longer knew what to say. She actually couldn't even figure out what she could possibly say to excuse her wretched behaviour.

Hermione stared into her husband's grey eyes – the pair like a quiet storm, intense but subdued, confused but self-assured at the same time, that were warm yet defensive without meaning to be – and the only thing she could say was, "I love you."

She didn't have to wait till he said, "I love you too," like it was second nature to him.

"I know." Hermione wrung her hands. "I really do, and I'm an idiot for forgetting that this morning."

It wasn't exactly an apology, but Draco didn't think he needed one. Honestly, he was already touched enough that she had come to him. He'd thought of her all day, tried to plan how to woo her back, hadn't wanted Pippa to come home to her parents fighting.

He closed his book and put it on the coffee table. "Come here."

She tentatively – eagerly – went to him, and settled herself on his lap. Instinctively, they held each other – her arms around his neck, his hands encircling her waist. Draco kissed his wife's cheek as she rubbed his ear softly with her nose. He no longer smelled of liquor and tobacco. He was once more the scent that made her lightheaded – peppermint, parchment, with a hint of the orange tea he preferred. She breathed him in as he dipped his head on to her shoulder, revelling in the thick brown curls, trimmed to a sensible length, that always somehow smelled like chocolate.

"I never meant to neglect you, Draco. I know I have," she whispered. "I've been too single-minded about my job and Pippa that I've turned into such a horrid wife."

"I don't put any of that against you," he assured. Gulping, "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"And I'm sorry for ignoring yours. I don't know how I could even be so wretchedly inconsiderate of the person who knows me best yet loves me still."

"I acted inconsiderately last night. I'm sorry you had to see that."

Hermione's hand snaked up the back of Draco's neck and into his hair.

"It's over now. It doesn't matter anymore."

She lay her head down on his shoulder, burrowing her face into his neck. His arms held her closer into him.

Draco chuckled. "What _did_ you do with Blaise and Theo?"

"Oh," she shrugged. "I only called Daphne and Tracy."

"You _didn't_."

"They were quite grateful. Come on, Draco, I couldn't have had Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott in the way if I was to nurse my husband back to sobriety."

One corner of his mouth pulled up. "Thank you."

They sat in comfortable silence, holding each other, until Hermione squirmed to reach for Draco's book on the table.

"The 1865 Potions Ledger," she read the title.

"I was hoping you'd be in the mood for a brew."

She flipped through the pages, quickly perusing the featured mixtures. "I actually am. That hangover potion you had this morning was the last of it."

"Please, no," he groaned. "I don't want to have any excuse to lose control again. Sweetheart," Draco's tone changed, and he held her chin to take her attention from the book. "I promise it won't happen again."

Hermione nodded. She gave him a smile. "What do you want to brew, then? Something challenging, mind."

"How about we have another go at that blasted Felix Felicis?" Draco suggested, pleased when her eyes lit up.

"Sounds great," she said, putting the book down and leaning back into him. "But later, yeah? We can just stay like this for a while."

* * *

Draco escorted Hermione down the stairs, amused by her unconcealed haste. When they reached the foyer, the elves were bringing bags and trunks out from the receiving room, where the main Floo was. Amongst the troop, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy emerged, tall and elegant and regal. Narcissa carried her granddaughter in her arms. She smiled brightly when she saw her son and daughter-in-law had come to greet them, and internally overjoyed when she saw their fingers intertwined again.

The little girl had cried out happily when she saw her parents. The lady bent down and steadied Philippa on the ground, urging, "Go on to Mummy and Daddy, dearest."

Her parents delightedly watched and cheered her on as she rushed to them. She was getting quicker and quicker every day, and Draco and Hermione treasured every time she found the confidence to walk because they had been absent the first time she got to her feet.

When she finally reached them, they engulfed her in their arms. "I missed you, baby girl," Draco said as Hermione peppered their daughter's face with kisses.

"She was already drifting off before we left," Lucius informed them. "She only woke up when she saw you."

"Well, we should get her to bed, then," Hermione decided.

"Thank you for bringing her with you," Draco told his parents. "I hope you had a good holiday."

"Pippa made it all the better," said his mother. She neared them and kissed the baby's hair. "Sweet dreams, darling."

Later, Hermione and Draco brought Pippa to her room and lulled her to sleep there. Draco held his daughter, while Hermione rested her head on his shoulder. When she was surely asleep, Draco carried her back to the nursery.

He joined Hermione on the bed, reaching for her in the darkness of the room. They lay facing each other, she stroking the fine blonde hair at the back of Draco's head, her other hand resting over his chest, both refusing to let any space be wasted between them.

Draco didn't know for how long, but he and Hermione simply looked at each other in silence, gratefully. She relished his pale, smooth skin that seemed somehow luminous in the dim moonlight streaming in through the windows. He committed to memory her ruddy cheeks, which intensified in colour when he repeatedly told her he loved her. Touching, embracing, adoring – they fell asleep this way.

* * *

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